Reflections From the Rail
by Emery Saks
Summary: While making his escape from yet another successful con, Professor Harold Hill thinks back on the sleepy town of Brighton, Illinois and the unexpected friendship he found there.


The train was almost empty when Harold Hill ascended the steps and ducked inside the deserted rail car that was hissing steam against the black rails of the track below. Rows of velvet-lined seats beckoned him, but he ignored them and turned to carefully stow his suitcase on the rack above the window. He'd gotten wind that stories involving his name were beginning to make their way down the line, and while his self-assured confidence had always served to dispel any unnecessary confrontations, he was a firm believer in avoiding trouble whenever possible: hence, his suitcase in the rack safely hidden from prying eyes and not on the floor for all to see. After all, there was no need to flash his identity to every salesman that boarded the train.

Settling into a seat nearest the window, Harold stared out the glass pane, his eyes roaming across the dry prairie. Rows of cornfields lay just past the freight depot, and in the distance, he could discern the figure of a farmer, trudging behind a horse and plow, tilling the dry soil of his field.

The dapperly-dressed salesman scoffed and shook his head, uttering a low, "Poor fool," before running the back of his hand along his brow and sighing.

It was hot. June had attacked the plains with a savage fury, and July wasn't looking much better. The long-sleeve shirt, jacket, tie and pants that etiquette required be worn at all times did nothing to help alleviate the stifling heat. What he wouldn't give to be eight years old again, running through town in knickerbockers. At least then, a boy could feel the cool breeze against his legs.

Harold cast his thoughts back over the sleepy town sitting just outside the train. Brighton, Illinois. Population 5,570. He couldn't believe how unbelievably easy this little town had been for him. There'd been no maiden piano teacher to seduce this time, just an elderly motherly figure who'd taken an instant liking to him the moment he'd flashed her his trademark grin over a barrel of taffy at the mercantile. Shortly after arriving in town, he situated himself at the local boardinghouse and set about inventorying his tools of the trade – pressed shirts, silk handkerchiefs, shoe polish and suit coats – items that were indispensable to his success. It was with some dismay he noted that his suit coats were beginning to show signs of wear. He'd needed thread for repairs – the buttons were getting loose on his favorite gingham suit and he couldn't very well sell his boys' band in a suit with no buttons – and the spirited Mrs. Sullivan happened to be standing next to the spools and needles getting a handful of candies for her great nephew just as the conman was rifling through the various shades of brown. Although Harold immediately realized she was out of his con's target audience, he instantly recognized a potential ally when he saw one. So, it was with genuine delight that he accepted her invitation for tea the next day with the understanding that he explain just how he planned on cobbling together a boy's band. It was rare for Harold to find anyone he couldn't instantly charm, and he was intrigued that the elderly woman, who had been disarmed by his easy smile, had still managed to retain a vestige of skepticism about his promises to bring music to her small town. But, he had no doubt that he would win her over – he always did. He hadn't yet met a woman who wasn't eventually swayed by his affable good looks and silver tongue. He didn't think he ever would.

An outing that was undertaken to initially satisfy his curiosity became an afternoon of stimulating conversation and artful dodging – Margaret certainly knew how to deliver a well-crafted question – and Harold found himself genuinely enjoying the widow's company. The next evening, his usual boardinghouse meals had been eagerly cast aside for the hot dinner Margaret had lovingly served him. She told him he'd reminded her of her own son, Philip, whom she'd lost to the Klondike gold rush 14 years earlier. When Harold saw the photograph in her home, he had been shocked by the strong resemblance. Although the young man wasn't smiling, there was a sparkle in his eyes that even the black and white tones couldn't dim. Harold knew that carefree look – it was the same shine that had been in his eyes ever since he was a little boy. Harold could hear the quiet pride resonate through the note of sadness that colored her voice as Margaret recalled her son's zeal for life, and he suddenly wondered if his own mother would've had the same tenor when she spoke of him were she still alive. He quickly shook his head and squelched the thought – sentimentality was far too dangerous for someone like him. But he couldn't stop the affection he felt growing within him for the older woman.

Perhaps it was because of Margaret's revelation regarding her son, or maybe it was simply because he found a motherly presence in her kindness – something Harold had long been without; whatever the reason, Harold was startled to find himself subtly altering his usual methods. Oh, he still worked his magic on the sleepy town, easily lightening the townspeople's change purses, but without the need to be hell bent on seduction, he allowed himself the rare opportunity of quiet companionship in the evenings. After finishing his dinner, he and Margaret would retire to the front porch to share amiable conversation – he cautiously regaling her with tales of his travels and her sharing anecdotes about her deceased husband and son. After his second week in Brighton, Harold found himself noticing things around her home that had fallen to the wayside – little repairs here and there that were easily fixable by a man in the prime of his life, but ones that would be quite difficult for an elderly woman.

That evening, while drifting off to sleep in his bed at the boardinghouse, he had been amazed to realize he was contemplating relinquishing an entire day of potential profit in exchange for manual labor – and free labor, to boot! But the next morning, he found himself at Margaret's home, sleeves rolled up and a hammer in hand, merrily whistling a tune about his made-up hometown of Gary, Indiana as he toiled under the hot June sun, mending the time-worn fence.

A pattern was established after that. By day, Harold would work his charms on the town, systematically fleecing its citizens. Early evenings would bring him to Margaret's home for a satisfying dinner, conversation and inevitably end with him doing some handiwork repair for her before he retired to the boardinghouse. More than once, he had wondered just who was charming whom, but truth be told, he hadn't minded. It had been a long time since anyone had shown genuine warmth and concern for his well being, and he found himself enjoying the novelty of it.

Movement outside the window caught his eye, and he turned just in time to spy a young woman scurrying down the street, headed in the direction of the park. She was, no doubt, on her way to the non-existent concert he'd organized for Professor Hill's boy band. A concert which, coincidentally, happened to coincide with the train's departure. Harold smirked. He may not know much about music, but he knew everything there was to know about train schedules. The young woman disappeared from his sight, and he sighed. She was quite lovely. He wondered how he'd missed her during his time in Brighton.

He had quickly learned that the fastest way to a woman's heart was through flattering words. Once he captured their hearts, it was easy to get everything else he wanted. He grinned to himself at the thought of the ample rewards he'd reaped from his many conquests throughout his travels.

There were women he knew in the big cities he passed through: dancers, actresses, a few that were even in the same line of work as he. Whenever he took a break from the rails and had money that needed spending, he'd eventually end up in Chicago, New York or Kansas City with a smile on his face and cash in hand. His lady friends were eager enough to spend time in his company, and he always made sure to show them a good time provided they did the same in return. He grinned to himself. He always got his money's worth, and judging from the pleading sighs when he inevitably left their beds and slipped into his trousers as the rails called to him again, he figured they'd got their fair share, too. And they were always ready to let him warm his beds when he next returned to town. Harold's cocky grin faded into a brooding frown as he contemplated their willingness.

One didn't exactly settle down with a woman like that. Sure they were fine for a few clandestine, and often enjoyable, encounters, but when it came time to raise a family, a man needed someone with morals. Harold scoffed. He couldn't picture anyone with morals choosing somebody like him. And why would he want that? Where had this sudden pensive reflection come from?

Professor Harold Hill had no desire to settle down. He liked to the ride the rails. A new adventure in every city. A young and beautiful woman to woo. More than woo if he was lucky. And with his affable personality, dark wavy hair and deep brown eyes, he often was. He grinned again. What had possessed him to fleetingly contemplate domesticity? Him settling down and hanging his hat to raise a family was about as likely as waking up one day and realizing he wanted to go into legitimate business. It simply wasn't in the cards, and that's how he wanted to keep it!

As he laughed to himself, a handful of stragglers came trudging in from the dining car, suitcases in hand. He read the various trades and shook his head, once again grateful for the silver tongue that kept him from having to engage in honest trade. Heaven forbid he ever find himself ensconced in reputable business. And speaking of income, was that a card game starting in the seat next to him?

Joining the game with a hefty ante of 30 cents, Harold quietly listened to the conversation around him as his fellow travelers bantered back and forth about the merit of credit nowadays. Although a few of the younger fellows seemed to be in favor of the new payment, the older salesmen were vehemently denouncing it, and Harold found himself agreeing with them.

Credit _was_ no good for a traveling salesman, especially when the salesman in question happened to be him. His MO was to collect the cash and skedaddle out of town before the farm-bred folk could realize they'd been fleeced. And it worked beautifully. Credit would put a serious kink in his scheme. Usually, farmers were wary of anything remotely modern, but every now and then he'd come across a forward-thinking individual. When that happened, he would lightly dance around the gentleman in question, or if it was a homely matron, drop a flattering compliment or two while tightly clasping her hand in his. That always seemed to do the trick. But for the most part, the farmers and eager mothers seemed to cling to the tried-and-true notion of keeping their cash tucked in a jar in the kitchen or rolled up tightly on their person. And that's just the way Harold liked it. All it took was a little finesse to part them from their hard-earned dollar, especially when it was right there in front of him. With little more than a smile and a wink, Harold often waltzed away with far more than the amount he'd initially quoted them.

He thought back to the gullible citizens of Brighton. If a fool and his money were soon parted, he'd hit the jackpot with this town. He couldn't remember ever walking away with as much as he had this time. In fact, he was tempted to forgo any more stops. He had enough cash to easily tide him over for the next few months. He could head to New York City and spend several weeks reacquainting himself with the lovely faces there.

But as much as he looked forward to the lovely ladies of New York, a part of him felt sadness at saying goodbye to the widow who reminded him of his mother in many ways. Although similar in temperament, Harold had noticed one striking difference between the two women. Whereas Harold never had difficulty in convincing his mother of his little lies, Margaret seemed to see through his carefully-crafted stories. At one point, he could've sworn she'd given him a knowing smile when he talked about his fictional hometown. But perhaps he'd imbibed too much brandy that night and simply imagined it. He'd experienced a slight pang of guilt when Margaret served him from her husband's private reserve that final night, but Harold placated himself with the knowledge that he had arranged for the upkeep of her home after he was gone. A woman of her advanced years had no business trying to mend fences or weed the flowerbeds that lined her porch. He'd struck a deal with a young man to drop by her house each week and take care of the chores. Harold had chosen him after carefully observing the farmers who frequented the feed store. Young Jonas Jones had a sterling reputation throughout Brighton, and Harold was confident the man would be true to his word. Besides, the hefty sum of money Harold had given him would ensure Margaret would be provided for the foreseeable future, even if Harold didn't get around to sending the young man the future payments he'd promised.

Harold clucked his tongue in self disapproval. He must be getting soft. Five years ago, he wouldn't have hesitated to enjoy the widow's hospitality and then skip town without a backward glance. But now, he felt a pang of regret at the loneliness she would no doubt experience after losing yet another person in her life. Harold frowned. If he was going to be honest with himself, he would miss Margaret's company, too. The past month had reminded him just how much he missed true companionship. He _was_ getting soft.

A commotion outside the far window caught his eye, and Harold watched with thinly-concealed amusement as a stocky man bounded toward the train, the local constabulary hot on his heels. Retrieving his watch from his pocket, Harold glanced at the time. Three p.m.: the time his _band_ was supposed to give its inaugural performance. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he realized the unfortunate salesman must've been out plying his trade when the townspeople finally registered they'd been duped. Chuckling softly, he tossed another dollar into the pot and gathered his cards from the table.

_Ah well, better him than me,_ Harold reflected thoughtfully and lowered his eyes to observe his hand.

He could hear the clanking of shoes on metal as the salesman hurried up the steps and then rounded the compartment, his suitcase thudding heavily when he dropped it on the floor and collapsed into a seat while he tried to catch his breath. Another chuckle escaped the self-ordained music professor, garnering a questioning look from one of the poker players.

"How far you going, friend?" another player asked conversationally as they laid down their cards.

Harold chuckled inwardly. He wasn't about to start giving away any information about himself. He was far too smart for that. So instead, he merely grinned and shook his head. "Wherever the people are as green as the money," he opined and scooped up the pot from the table. "_Friend_."

Yes, New York City was definitely in his near future, he decided as he tucked the cash away in his breast pocket. _But wait a minute, did he just hear that anvil salesman say his name?_ _And what was this about not even the great Professor Harold Hill being able to pull the wool over the eyes of stubborn Iowans?_ That sounded like a challenge, and there was nothing more in life he loved than a good challenge.

Grinning widely, Harold stood up and reached for his suitcase.

"Gentlemen, you intrigue me …"


End file.
